España
by Writer of a Thousand Colors
Summary: To almost everyone here, including his own troops, he is merely General Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Almost everyone." Drabble about Spain and snapshots of his life. Slight SpainxRomano.


He knows he isn't crying, but it feels that way as blood drips from the gash on his forehead onto his cheeks. Bloody tears, red and hot, as hot as the sunlight beating on his back. He smiles as he raised his sword above his head, fingers wrapped so tightly around the hilt that his hand screams in protest.

Bloody tears suit this moment.

He flies forward, army on his heels, and his sword sways, moves, dances. It almost feels like he is no longer holding it, although he knows he is; his aching hand won't let him forget it. The blade moves easily, not requiring any conscious thought of his own. He has fought enough times to know how to dance this war through by now.

England's troops swarm him, and swords flash in the sun, silver blades tearing into his clothing and skin. They think him a human; after all, nothing about him sets him apart as a Nation, a country made human. To almost everyone here, including his own troops, he is merely General Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.

Almost everyone.

His face breaks into a grin as he shoves his sword through a man's chest, blood spurting all over him as he draws the blade out as fast as it plunged in, before whipping around and smacking the flat side of the sword on another soldier's forehead, sending him stumbling backwards.

He is moving again before the soldier can regain his footing, and his sword is slamming into the armor covering the man's chest. He gasps, winded and hazel eyes wide, and Antonio takes the moment to drive the hilt of the sword into the man's unprotected temple. The man falls heavily, but Antonio is already gone, leaping around and over bodies, sweat-soaked hair sticking into his face. His eyes, green as a forest at twilight, darted around the crowd of soldiers and flash of weapons, searching for the only other Nation-person here, the only other "immortal".

His grin widens when he catches sight of England's dishwater blonde hair, spikes sticking up in the air as the Nation dodges blades and fists, his face cracked into a crazy smile. His green eyes, brighter then his, sparkled in the sunlight, showing his delight in the chaos around him.

Spain leaps over another fallen - _one of his own, with empty eyes and an empty husk of a body, soul gone to Heaven, or to maybe hell?_ - ducking to avoid the slash of another sword, just slightly too slowly and it catches the tips of his wavy chocolate brown hair.

He slams the hilt of his sword into his attacker's chest, sending his flying backwards before he takes off again, sword raised above his head as he leaps into the air, aiming downwards at Captain Arthur Kirkland's - _a Nation made alive just like him, who will suffer from this battle just as he will_ - messy blonde head.

Arthur hears the slash of the blade, and flashes out of sight, out of the sword's way, just in time, and the blade slams into the ground, sending a cloud of dirt into Spain's face, and the blade is drive in so hard that he has to pause for a moment to pull it out before turning to block England's attack.

England's clothing is ripped, sleeves a mere wisp of fabric by this point in time. His breastplate is dented in just above his stomach, the sheath for his sword missing and his blade dripping in blood -_ Spanish blood, blood from soldiers that lived and died for him, and he feels their deaths, a prickling underneath his skin_ - that falls onto Spain's face as he pushes back on his own sword, trying to prevent the other Nation-person from slicing him clean in two.

England doesn't say a word, only smiles, as he pulls back and slashes horizontally, aiming for the Spaniard's stomach. Spain falls to his back and rolls over, sword pressed flat against the ground as he flips backwards and rolls to his feet, crouching like a giant cat before launching himself forward, sword raised towards England's throat.

The hilt of England's sword slams into the small of his back as Spain realizes that England is not where he has been aiming, and Spain lets out a hoarse cry of pain as he falls to the ground, back screaming from the blow.

England's foot plants itself just above the spot where he hit, his weight heavy and oppressing as he breathes in Spain's ear, "Close, but not close enough, Antonio."

Spain grins, his smile crazy and touched with - _god, can't be insanity, he isn't insane, he isn't broken, not yet_ - something not fully sane as he replies in a low whisper, "No, I think I win this time." His hand flashes out and grabs England's ankle, then his foot follows and crashes into England's knee, sending the Nation-person sprawling as Spain wriggles out from under him and points the tip of his sword against the soft skin just underneath England's jawline.

His smile fades a little when he notices that there is no fear in England's eyes as the blonde Nation tilts his head towards him, blade digging into his throat and cutting in the thinnest line of blood. "Not today," he says, and something slams into the base of Spain's skull where his neck begins, on the top of his spinal cord, and black washes over him and he knows no more.

----

Walking hurts, has been hurting for the last god-knows-how-long, but he continues to drag one foot, then the other, towards his home. His sides are soaked with something he knows to be is blood but refuses to admit, his skull aching and black threatening the corners of his vision every time he blinks. Sparks, as bright as stars, dance in front of him. Or maybe they are stars as bright as sparks? He doesn't even know any more.

His house is miraculously standing, his garden wilting in the summer heat. Spain sighs, breath tearing at his throat, as he opens the door into the cool exterior of his home. It's dim, something that Spain finds relaxing on his exhausted and strained eyes, and as he shuts the door behind him, he leans forward, resting his burning forehead on the cool wood.

"There you are, bastard!" Spain almost groans aloud at the sound of that voice, the words grating on his ears -_ ears still filled with the cries of the dying and the screams of battle_ - as he cracks one eye open slightly to peer at Romano.

The little Nation-person - _so young, too young to really understand the responsibility and expectations and pain of being a Nation made human_ - has his tiny hands balls into fists and planted on his non-existent hips. His eyes, turned dark by the lack of light, stare up at Spain. "Where the hell were you? God, are you bleeding? You had better not drip on the floor! Who do you think cleans around here?"

Spain forced his lips into a painful smile as he kneeled in front of the little Nation. "Hey," he says softly, hands resting on his aching knees, hair flopping into his exhausted eyes, "Sorry, Romano, but I think I just need some quiet for a bit."

Romano's scowl turns darker, head tilting to the side. "What the hell did you get yourself into this time?"

Spain smiles sadly as he stands up, brushing dirt, dried blood and god knows what else from his clothing - _but he can't brush away the agony that swamps him, the stiffness in his joints, the burning in his eyes_ - before striding past the tiny Nation and heading for the darkness of his bedroom.

He didn't answer Romano's question, he realizes as he shuts his bedroom door behind him. His room is dark, and plain, his bed looking so inviting that it draws him like a magnet, and he collapses on it, face buried in his pillow.

He didn't answer Romano's question. But the little Nation-person... his lips lift at the edges as he shifts his body, trying to make himself comfortable. He'll let the little Nation enjoy his freedom a while longer.

His eyes are shut and he is lost to the world before he can even let his racing heartbeat, still pumped from adrenaline from the battle, relax.

----

Romano is growing, something that Spain regards almost detachedly, like it isn't really happening. The little Nation is lanky now, his arms too long for his body. His face has lost most of the roundness of childhood, but the sharp angles of adulthood haven't appeared just yet.

Romano is wondering why Spain is always so weak now, why he sleeps so much longer then he used to, what makes those thin lines that surround his - _exhausted, tired, ancient_ - mentor's green eyes.

As much as the little Nation is loath to admit it, he finds it - _he isn't worried; he doesn't care, doesn't care at all _- strange, strange that Spain is always so tired, always so pale and drawn. He knows Spain has been fighting; he sees that his sword is covered in blood, sees the cuts that litter Spain's body.

But he doesn't say a word, even when Spain collapses in the kitchen from blood loss, even when Spain's temperature rises and the older Nation-person is forced to stay in bed all day, unconscious, sweat beading on his brow, even when Romano has to turn away - _god, everyone is aging, everyone looks so old, will he ever be as big as they are?_ - France and England.

Finally, Spain stumbles out from his bedroom, covers wrapped around his shoulders. He looks tired, but he still casts a now-twelve-year old - _only in appearance, he is much older then twelve in truth, but no one but the Nations know that_ - Romano an exhausted smile.

"Hola," Spain says, leaning against the wall behind him, hunching his back over. His hair falls in his face as he reaches out and musses Romano's hair. "Sorry, Romano; I gotta leave again soon. For America."

Romano hides his interest in the new Nation across the sea; a world filled with gold and treasure and strange people and strange languages, strange food, strange creatures... "Damn you to hell, Spain! What makes you think I care about that?"

Spain merely smiles as he surges forward, blankets dropping like enemies in battle as he ignores Romano's yells of, "Hey! Dickhead! Who do you think cleans around here?!"

----

The year is 1818, and Romano no longer looks even remotely childlike. In appearance, he is sixteen, all long arms and long legs, forever tripping over the smallest of things. His voice has deepened, his cheekbones risen, his face is now sharper and more angular.

He starts when the door opens, and Spain stumbles in, hair a mess, eyes haunted. His cheeks are sunken, skin pale, and Romano can't help the worry - _yes, worry, because Spain doesn't look like Spain, not right now_ - in his voice as he asks, getting up from the couch, "What's wrong, bastard?"

Spain flashes him a strained smile as he leans back against the door, eyes sliding shut. "I gave Chile his independence," he replies, and Romano notices the tremor in his words. Romano remembers Chile; a tall man, taller then Romano but still smaller then Spain, muscular in build with short brown hair and eyes the color of dry dirt. Chile declared independence back in 1810, but Romano had never really thought he would be granted it.

Romano opens his mouth to say something, anything, but shuts it slowly when nothing comes to mind. Spain doesn't notice as he whispers, "What did I do wrong, Romano?"

"Huh?" The question confused Romano, and he almost did a double-take, but Spain was still talking.

"What did I do? What makes them all leave? Venezuela, Argentina, Chile...they have all left...and what of the others? Mexico, Columbia, Peru, Panama...when will they leave? When will you leave?" Spain is shaking now, tears in the corners of his dark green eyes. "What am I doing wrong?"

Spain slides down to the floor, back pressed against the door, face buried in his hands. He's crying, small whimpers that make Romano's heart break. Before he can stop himself, he is crossing the room, kneeling besides Spain, hand hovering just over the other Nation-person's back.

"Cheer up, bastard," he mumbles, hand floating, never quite touching, Spain's shoulder. Spain is shaking, his body wracked with sobs. "I'm not leaving..."

But even as he says it he knows it's all a lie.

----

The year is 1861, and Romano is finally starting to fit his body. His face is sharp lines and bright eyes, a shapely mouth turned downwards in a permanent scowl. His arms finally are long enough for his torso, his legs under his control. In looks, now he is nineteen, his long hair wild and uncut.

His bangs are plastered to his face by sweat as the sun beats down on his head. Spain's face is flushed, eyes wide and undeniably shocked, fingers digging into the soft green grass underneath him, his knuckles white.

"You're independent," Spain repeats slowly, looking like he doesn't quite understand what that means. Romano bites his lip, then nods, slowly. His hair is making the back of his neck itch.

"Yes."

They are silent, and Romano's fingers twist into the grass, snapping off delicate leaves. "My brother has fought Austria and won. I've fought against you and won. Feliciano and I are now the Kingdom of Italy, Spain."

Spain says nothing as he looks away, eyes dropping down to the flowerbeds a few feet away. Romano tries to squash the worry that flutters in the pit of his stomach - _because in that moment, Spain looks so, so old and so, so tired, so old that it makes something in his heart ache_ - as he gets to his feet.

"I'm..." he pauses, then shuts his eyes as he continues, "I'm sorry, Spain." He turns on his heel and pads away as quietly as possible, looking back only once before he forces his eyes to remain staring forward. He doesn't want to see that broken look on - _his_ - Spain's face.

----

How can he smile?

Spain is smiling, hands locked behind his head, eyes shut as he talks animatedly with Mexico, a short man with skin darker then both Romano's and Spain's, smooth black hair catching the sunlight almost as well as his chocolate brown eyes.

How can Spain smile with all that he has lost? Romano wonders about it as he locks his fingers together, resting his head on top of them. His bangs fall in his face. But he doesn't bother to brush them out of the way as he stares openly.

Spain starts after a moment, then turns a little, a fraction, an inch to face Romano, eyes opening a crack. His grin widens, and one of his hands rise above his head in a tiny wave. Romano feels his face burn as he looks away, scowling fiercely, but he knows Spain is laughing at him, which just makes him blush harder.

"You look like a tomato, Lovi!" Spain yells from across the room. "_¡Muy delicioso_!"

Romano's face feels like it's on fire as he yells back, "_Chiuda in su, bastardo!_" The other Nation watch the exchange with badly concealed smiles and knowing looks at one another, and Romano decides he really doesn't like those raised eyebrows and suppressed giggles escaping pressed lips.

But Spain doesn't notice, Spain is back to talking with Mexico, and Spain doesn't notice the smiles and giggles.

Sometimes, Romano wonders if Spain is the weakest country of them all, or the strongest, but staring at Spain's grin -i a grin that doesn't show loss and pain and years and years of worries and exhaustion/i - he knows that yes, Spain is indeed strong.

----

**Author's Note**

**...No...plot....where did this thingy's plot go...?**

**Hope ya liked, anyway. Even if it is totally random and lacking in anything interesting. I'm not sure how historically accurate it is, as I wrote this up at two in the morning and was too exhausted to double-check any facts, so if you find a mistake, please tell me! I'm open to critism.  
**


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